Caught In the Act
by GeckoBlossom
Summary: "Robert Owen Charles Kilroy, you have persistently and flagrantly violated code 672 which forbids the playing and pervaying of rock music. You are convicted of the manslaughter of a member of the Majority for Musical Morality. You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment."- The Judge
1. Prologue

The Paradise Theater.

She had been fantastic in her day- draped fittingly in red velvet and marble like a starlet goddess- back when musicians from all over the nation flocked to her gilded doors and clung to her lush, curtains like suckling babes to their mother's tit. The light of her smile had illuminated all of New York and the thrum of her grand heartbeat pulsed through the entire city, pounding in time with every soul as though it were the drumbeat of humanity itself.

She drew them all in with her charm, sneaking sly winks and luring them deeper into her luxurious halls. She caressed them with silken hands and whispered promises of fame into the ears of the young and old alike. To her gold-blue eyes, all ambitions were laid bare- nervous and eager as virgins on their wedding nights.

Many fancied that they were the experienced ones. They liked to believe that they were showing the world how to woo such a fine lady and they held the trophy of her affections close to their hearts as one would a lock of hair from a lover. But Paradise was always the one tugging on the golden chains of their hearts. Even as the bass deepened to rolling depths and the fingers on the strings of guitars quickened their pace to match the desperate beat of the drums, even as sweat poured down the necks of the straining vocalists and the audience begged and screamed for the climax- she was the dominant lover.

A generous lover.

She held the thousands deep within her chambers and wrapped them snug against her breast as wave after wave of satisfaction washed over them in orgasmic tides that was not felt so much by the body, but by the soul; an intense pleasure that was shared by musicians and audiences in a way that no other joy could be.

And when the tides receded she watched them leave in mass without complaint, knowing that there would be another. But sometimes, a lone artist would linger to admire her graceful slopes and opulent make in the post-climatic calm. Sometimes she felt their hand caress her cheek in thanks before a soft kiss good-bye.

She cherished each moment, every lover, but there was always another.

A young man eager to prove himself to a harsh world, a timid girl whose talent outshone the brightest star, a group of friends determined to make it to the top…

She collected them like jewels, each brilliant in its own right.

And even while she grew older and her crowds thinned, even as her floors went unswept and her windows cracked, even though her lights dulled and her heart slowed, even when they nailed shut her doors and let her fall into faded memory, she knew…

There would _always_ be another.

Perhaps a new hero, come to rescue her from the loneliness of silence, or a returning lover, still yearning for her embrace.

A boy that would fight for her affections against a world that considered their love taboo.

A man who longed for the past because the future was too ugly for him to face alone.

Oh, yes, another would come.

Another seeking _Paradise._


	2. Chapter 1: The Best of Times

The thunderous roars of the crowd- so powerfully audible that his very bones listened and hummed in tune with the voices.

His heartbeat wavering wildly inside his chest as adrenaline was pushed through him like a narcotic through a syringe, the effect of which delivered a dizzying high that threatened to collapse him like a jointed doll and leave him feeling as brittle as sugar glass.

The heady scent of thousands of tightly packed bodies mixed with the woody musk of the stage and the misty vapors of the smoke machines that turned him on faster than any womanly perfume.

The rich vibrations that rolled in his throat as he belted out verse after verse, hitting every note like a musical g-spot and making the audience scream.

The sharp, salty taste of his own sweat as he ran his tongue over his top lip; a thin film of saliva catching on the minute amount of stubble that had formed there over the twelve hours since he had last shaved.

Those memories…

Those _sensations_…

Still lingered.


	3. Chapter 2: Borrowed Time

Robert Kilroy was not a physically impressive man. He was tall, but with a slender build. His lightly peppered brown hair - nearly three and a half inches at its longest point at the back of his neck - liked to curl snugly against his scalp and his hooded eyes seemed more misty grey than the light blue he claimed they were.

Despite his height he wasn't particularly intimidating; however, his face did have a fierce, cat-like quality to its make. Not streamlined and sharp like a house cat. His jaw was square and his cheeks bones were wide, giving him the faint likeness of a lion.

He wasn't muscular, but rather somewhere between healthily fit and soft, his nose and ears were perhaps a modicum too big for his face, and he was closer to middle age than he would like to openly admit or acknowledge.

Yet, regardless of his unremarkable appearance, he was the _"silver tongued, silver fox heartthrob of the nation"-_ as it was so eloquently put by _Rock'N'Roller _magazine.

And a silver tongue he had. What he lacked in brawn he made up for with a distinctively powerful voice. Stirring low notes, crisp high notes, angelic harmonies, hard hitting power ballads, tear jerking love songs; he could do it all with the sickening ease of a man who simply had a natural gift for song and a raging passion for music. He felt the beat and tempo so deeply inside himself that he couldn't help but exude a kind of pregnant glow that drew people to him like the godless to a missionary.

And the people just kept coming. Every stadium he performed at was packed past the filling point, tickets were sold out within seconds of being released, his autographs were peddled on the internet - despite the sheer volume of signed merchandise floating around, and the fan mail - dear lord, the fan mail. He had needed to convert a spare office space to a mail room and hire a team of four people to help him sort the hundreds of letters and e-mails by date into categories such as: 'Children' (he made it a priority to respond to these clumsy, crayon penned notes first), 'Aspiring Musicians', 'Business' (which included everything from record deals to pleas to perform at local schools and handwritten sheets of music for him to "consider"), 'Hate Mail' (he received a surprising amount from parents, religious groups, and random bar hoppers that just needed something to complain about), and 'Inappropriate' (letters in this category were shredded as soon as they were found).

In the twelve years since his discovery at a Chicago bar on the Southside he went from being a high school music teacher that was lucky _not_ to find transparent thumb tacks booby-trapping his chair to being the undisputed king of the musical industry.

Or at least… he had been.

And that was where Kilroy's thoughts tapered off into gloomier waters as he absently stroked the chipped and pitted marble column he leaned upon with the backs of his long fingers. It was obscenely late to be strolling through the abandoned theater, but her blue-gold eyes and red velvet hands had plagued his mind for months.

Ever since President Commander Everett Righteous (_that pompous bastard,_ Kilroy thought acidly every time that name was mentioned) had managed to pass his "Pure Entertainment Act".

The infringing laws permitted unregulated government censorship of all forms of entertainment. And since Kilroy had used his lyrical talent and mass influence to attack Righteous' masked attempts to steadily turn the country into a fascist nation, his music was the first to be banned from the shelves. Quickly followed by all genres of rock, rap, pop, hip hop, and punk.

Robert Orin Charles Kilroy had gone from being called the modern reincarnation of Elvis Presley to the preverbal King of Fools.

_Although,_ Kilroy mused, _Quasimodo had never fallen so far from the top of his bell tower. He could swing and leap through Notre Dame's frame as like Tarzan through the jungle, never missing a beat._

And wasn't that what Kilroy was contemplating here? To make his pendulum swing over the pit one last time? To hear the bells of protest ring again?

Perhaps.

He liked to think that he was risking it all for the cause, but a deeper, larger part of him - a baser, dirtier part of him - just wanted to feel it again.

To get his fix.

And his lovely Lady with the Blue-Gold Eyes was his supplier. She had been the first to pop the pills into his eager mouth and give him a pure shot of spotlight.

And while he had spent the following years of his life continuing to feed his addiction to the stage, that same passage of time had not been kind to her.

He knew her gilded doors had been shut, that she had been alone for the better part of a decade, but he had not expected… _this_.

Roaches crawled over the toes of his old sneakers as he stood, plain evidence of an infestation of vermin and pests in the tattered velvet curtains and in the corners, putrid trash and broken glass where the halls had been used to shelter street bums that had slithered through the cracks with the rats, shattered windows boarded with splintering wood, missing tiles… the list went on and on.

Kilroy was angry to see her this way and he felt guilty for it, too.

He had performed at The Paradise Theater eleven years ago. It was where he had broken free of the sinking sandpit of "wanna-be rock stardom" and had shattered that damned glass wall between him and fame with the sledge hammer he called his voice.

And he hadn't looked back since.

Not until the music had been ripped away like hot wax off a hairy back.

And without the spotlights, without the screams of the crowd, and the rush, he discovered just how dependent he had become on it.

In the months that had followed President Righteous' ban on his albums and performances, he had moped around his estate like a bored child. The feeling of moody irritation giving way to frantic desperation and then to the cold-sweat inducing fear that _this_ might not change, that Righteous might have finally won his obstinate war against rock'n'roll.

And it was in the grip of this thoroughly selfish grief that he had heard Paradise call his name and after eleven years of not giving her a single thought beyond fond memory, he went to her without hesitation.

His wife had, of course, been less than pleased to find him slipping out of the house so late. In fact, she had been mad as hell.

_"Where are you going?"_ She had demanded in a hurt rage.

_"Who is she? Who do you keep sneaking out to see?" _She screamed, jumping to the wrong (and the right) conclusions.

_"If you leave, you better not come back!"_ She had told him, hoping that the threat would have some effect.

_"Aren't I enough?"_ She broke into hysterical tears, her legs barely able to carry the weight of her rage and pain as he walked out the door.

The terrible, sinful truth was that his wife, his beautiful Suzanne, was_ not_ enough.

He needed _her, _that other force that commanded him as surely as the voice of God. He needed _Paradise_.

_Well,_ Kilroy thought as his misty grey-blue eyes fixed on the neglected stage, _I'm here, Babe. Now what?_

He could almost feel her smile against the back of his neck, her intangible arms wrap around his abdomen.

He _knew _what. He had known before he had walked out of his front door.

One last show.

He'd revive his protest album, _High Time_, on a live stage one last time, for his own self-gratification as much as the cause.

It'd be dangerous.

It'd be reckless.

It'd earn him a one-way ticket to a prison bench.

But it would also send a message.

_"Look here,"_ it'd say, _"look here, you tight-ass sonsabitches, you can't stop me! You can't stop the music! Long live rock'n'roll!"_


	4. Chapter 3: Bigshots, Crackpots

Kilroy had to call in all his favors, but the illegal revival of _High Time _was well underway in less than a week. The Paradise Theater was being outfitted once again for sound equipment and lights, her floors were being scrubbed, cobwebs were knocked from corners - an act that was often accompanied by startled yelps due to the long-legged pests that fell from those nests, and the dust was somewhat inefficiently brushed away (it had a nasty tendency to settle again in new locations).

And though there was a team of nearly a dozen men and women helping Kilroy bring the Paradise back to life, the theater was nearly dead silent (except for the terrified shrieks when spiders or rats were found). It had to be. If the local authorities caught wind of what was going down, the entire group would face very serious charges, hefty fines, and even some jail time. Kilroy - having already been foiled more than once on previous attempts to perform his banned songs - would be facing anywhere from three to eight years. And Righteous

(_that tight-ass_ _bastard_)

would love nothing more than to have him locked quietly away in one of his renowned "prison hospitals".

So, while the group worked, they kept sound waves to a bare minimum. Large pieces of equipment were brought to the theater under the cover of night and the crew - bless their tireless souls, worked from sunup to sundown and on. They probably could have taken the surface restoration effort more slowly, but Kilroy insisted on keeping a tight schedule for two reasons: one was that he feared that the longer the preparations took, the more likely they were to be found out, the other was that he was eager to be back in the spotlight. He kept the second reason to himself.

And while the technical details were being taken care of, he focused to getting a band together that would be willing - no, _enthusiastic -_ to perform under such risky circumstances. He didn't intend to play any instruments this time around, despite his proficiency with a keyboard and guitar. He wanted to focus on singing and stage presence.

"Hey, Toby," Kilroy called through his cell phone.

There was a pause.

_"Kilroy? Is that you?"_ replied a slightly startled voice.

"Yeah, it's me, but hey I need to ask you something." Kilroy said before Toby could interrupt. It had been nearly a year since they had last spoken, but now was not the time for pleasant formalities.

_"What?"_ The voice of Toby replied, his interest piqued.

"Do you still have that old rocker for sale?"

_"Rocker?"_ Toby repeated perplexed. Kilroy could almost see Toby's face screw up in dull confusion.

"Yeah, the wooden rocker." Kilroy emphasized. He was using a long ago established code, created when the first rumors of Righteous' vendetta against rock'n'roll started to float around the music industry, followed quickly by whispers of the secret government use of digital spyware and phone taps on American citizens.

Toby would know the code, but it had been some time since it was last used.

The silence on the other end of the line lengthened.

_"The wooden rocker?"_ Toby asked again. "_Kilroy, I've never owned a wooden rocking chair."_

Kilroy pressed his palm against the right side of his face and took a deep breath. If anyone in the government were listening to their conversation, they would immediately know that something was amiss. Anyone else might have said "Never mind, Toby; must have been someone else. It's been a good talk, bye", but Kilroy had already decided that he wanted Toby to play the drums for his show and you'd be hard put to find a better, more passionate drummer. Or a more harebrained one - meant affectionately, of course.

"Toby, are you sure? It was an old wooden Pearl rocker." That name did not belong to any furniture company, but instead to the drum manufacturer that Toby promoted. If that didn't jog his memory, Kilroy would have to drop it and find another guy.

_"Pearl…"_ The Toby muttered, _"Pearl, Pearl, Pearl…"_ He chanted quietly. Then it clicked. _"Pearl! Oh, yeah! The Pearl rocker! I can't believe I forgot!"_ He let out a goofy laugh.

Kilroy smiled, relieved. "Yeah, is it still for sale?"

_"Yeah, yeah, of course. When do you need it by?"_ Toby asked excitedly.

"Yesterday." Kilroy chuckled.

_"Just get me the mailing address and I'll have it sent to you, ASAP."_

"Thanks, Toby." Kilroy said sincerely.

_"Don't mention it."_ Toby replied. _"Talk to you later, Pal."_

"Cheers." Kilroy ended the call; the feeling of jittery anticipation was starting to trickle through him again. One down. Four to go.

The last four members of the band fell into place like puzzle pieces and, as fortune would have it, they were all currently in Illinois looking for something to do.

_With this kind of luck I should buy a lottery ticket_, Kilroy thought after he finished his last call. He let himself fall backwards on his hotel room bed, sinking into instead of bouncing on the springless mattress. He could have fallen asleep like that, still completely dressed with his knees hanging over the edge of the bed, but he had one last call to make before turning in for the night.

He glanced to his right to read the digital clock on the bedside table. The bright red numbers burned 11:23 AM into eyes. Suzanne would be fast asleep by now and she could be a real gargoyle if she was woken up before her alarm went off at eight. Kilroy weighed the risks. He had tried to call her every day since he had left, but he had only gotten as far as the answering machine every time.

He didn't have any reason to think she'd pick up the phone this time. In fact, she would probably rip it from the wall and throw it down the stairs if he called this late. Yet, he still felt like he should try. If only to let her know that he was still thinking about her, despite the current and well deserved hostilities.

He held his phone over his face and pressed and held the number one. The number for his home phone sprang up immediately, followed by the default, trilling ring tone. He put the phone against his ear and stared at the plastered starburst patterns on the ceiling while he waited.

The phone rang six times before switching to the answering machine again:

_"You've reached Mr. and Mrs. Kilroy, we aren't home right now. Please leave a message after the beep and we'll get back to you as soon as we can."_

It was Suzanne's voice on the machine, the message as plain and formal as it could be. She had refused to let him change it to something more interesting and he was starting to get real tired of hearing it over and over again.

The beep sounded.

"Hey, Babe," he said in his most sincere 'please forgive me' tones, "just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. Call me when you can. Love you, Goodnight."

He hung up. The message was short, but he meant every word even though he was sick and tired of her cold shoulder.

He knew he deserved it, but that didn't stop the irritation he felt at her refusal to, well, get over it. After all, he had pulled worse stunts.

_Ever think that you might have finally broken the camel's back, _nagged a tiny voice inside his head that sounded suspiciously like his grandmother.

He waved the voice away, along with the little piece of him that felt guilty at the accusation. Well, waved them away, wasn't exactly accurate. More like drop kicked them out of the window and listened to them splatter across the pavement thirteen stories down.

Kilroy sat up with a sigh, pulled off his sneakers and jeans, then crawled up the bed to the starchy pillows and under the heavy comforter.

_She'll come around._ He thought as he shifted into a more comfortable sleeping position. _She knows how important this is to me. _

_As important as a cocaine fix is to a junkie. _The nagging voice had miraculously scooped itself up from the sidewalk and climbed back through the window. _Admit it, you're just another attention seeking fame hound. You'd sell your right arm if it meant you could legally be back in the spotlight. _

"Jesus fucking Christ." Kilroy murmured into the pillowcase.

_Don't use the Lord's name in vain,_ the wrinkled old voice snapped. If she were real she would have slapped him and stuffed his mouth full of soap just like she had when he had been a boy.

"Go soak your head, and for the record," Kilroy informed the empty air, "I wouldn't conform to Righteous' Musical Morality bull shit even if it killed me."

_Hrumpf, we'll see_.

"Just watch me." Kilroy muttered stubbornly, then reached over to the lamp on the bedside table and turned it off. He'd show her. He'd show them all. This _was_ about standing up for what he believed in and he _believed_ in the music. He _believed_ in rock'n'roll.


	5. Chapter 4: The King of Fools

People often said Kilroy was many things. They called him arrogant, egocentric, reckless, even antagonistic, but no one could claim that he wasn't thorough; just shy of being a true sufferer of obsessive compulsive disorder.

He didn't just want everything to be perfect, he needed it to be. Not only for his own personal satisfaction, but for the safety of his audience and crew as well. After all, they were risking quite a lot for this little stunt.

It put an entirely new light on the preparations.

Instead of posting on every available surface and web page that he had a show coming up, he had needed to create a code and then allow it time to settle. A select few were sent into the streets of New York and told to spread the code and key to underground rock'n'rollers. It worked almost like a drug deal. A supplier met with the buyer and the buyer bought and paid for the drug (in this case, the code key). The message itself was spray painted in the form of graffiti on alley walls. Only those who knew the key would recognize the symbols and be able to unravel its mysteries, but just to be safe, false messages had been scattered about as well. They differed visually from the real message only in color. True messages were painted in purples and blues (Kilroy's favorites) while fake ones were in yellows and oranges.

But graffiti codes and covert exchanges were not the only things that had to be employed to ensure secrecy. The Paradise herself had needed to be outfitted with sound blocking equipment so that the show's excitement wouldn't travel beyond the stadium and alert any of Righteous' devoted followers.

"We're all soundproof, right?" Kilroy asked as he strolled casually across the vast stage, the seating of the theater looking bizarrely dark beyond the near painful brightness of the heat lights. "No one outside those double doors is going to hear us?"

Dean, the head of his technical crew and a long-time friend, answered him with rolling eyes as he estimated a few loose measurements for spotlight placement, "Yes, for the hundredth time, yes! Once those doors are shut, we are sealed in." Dean waved backwards in the direction of the gilded double doors that framed the entrance to the inner stadium space.

"But the exits are still clear in case things go sour?" Kilroy prompted.

"Of course." Dean sighed as he stepped back two paces and held his hands up to his eyes in a square like an artist.

"And we are _certain_ that Righteous hasn't gotten wind of any of this?"

"Look, Doc," Dean said, using an old nickname that had been stuck to Kilroy by accident, but stuck nonetheless, "how long have we been working together, huh? Goin' on twelve years, right?" He closed his right eye and looked through his squared palms again.

Kilroy opened his mouth to speak but Dean broke his square, held up a silencing finger, and continued, "And have I ever let you down?"

"No," Kilroy sighed after a short pause, "But-"

"Uh-uh," Dean reprimanded, "Go be someone else's pest, will ya? I've got this covered."

"But-"

"Get!" Dean commanded, turning away from Kilroy and pointing towards backstage with an unwavering arm, the other eye closed now as he stared at the metal webbed ceiling.

Kilroy sighed and sauntered backstage with his hands in his pockets like a teen that had been told off for obnoxious behavior. He knew better than to continue to get in Dean's way after his 'warning', despite his good intentions. The technical side of the stage was Dean's domain and he protected his rule like a tiger during mating season.

_You know what they say about good intentions, _a sarcastic little voice piped up from the back of Kilroy's mind.

_Yeah, _Kilroy answered silently, _they get you into shit._

_Bingo!_

Kilroy chuckled quietly and searched for something to do. A task which, as he discovered, was easier said than done. His crew was so capable that they needed no direction or aide. Ultimately, he found himself sitting idly at an old grand piano that had been pushed far backstage.

Kilroy ran his fingers lovingly over the glass-like surface, his reflection smiling back perfectly through the blue-black depths. On the panel above the gently worn keys was the proud gold label that branded the beauty as a Bechstein treasure.

The first instrument he had learned to play had been the paino. More specifically, a neglected old honkey tonk.

It had been just after his fourteenth birthday and he had been staying at his aunt's for the summer while his parents ironed out the kinks in their divorce papers and fought over who would get which weekends. Although he now looked back on that summer as one of the best, at the time he had been less than excited to have been transplanted from the only home he had ever known in Chicago to the terrifying wilds of Bent, Colorado. He was angry, emotionally hurt, and confused. So, naturally, he had acted out. It was only after the local cops had driven him home in the back of a squad car that his aunt had introduced him to the faded honkey tonk.

He had been fortunate to avoid having the incident stamped on his permanent record, but he had not escaped punishment. His uncle had taken a hickory switch to his hind end- a whipping that hid left his rear stinging for days- and had banned him from leaving their property for the remainder of the summer. He had been extremely upset by this truncation of his freedom, but had not tested his uncle's patience by deliberately crossing the line.

His aunt had taken pity on him. She had sat him down in the parlor and given him his first music lesson. The cranky old piano had desperately needed tuning and a good solid kick, but it sang its southern twanged songs with some gentle coercion.

At first, he had resisted. He hadn't wanted to lean to play an instrument like a sissy. He wanted to be back home in Chicago. He wanted his parents to stop fighting. He wanted his uncle to stop being such a killjoy. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be held. He wanted life to slow down. He wanted to fast forward. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to be noticed. He didn't know what he wanted, just that he did, in fact, want _something_.

And while he stubbornly fought her every step of the way, she patiently worked against his angst and was eventually able to get through his thick head. The first time his fingers pushed the yellowed keys and he produced a terribly fragmented rendition of "Chopsticks", he felt it click.

This was the _something. _

From there he had fallen hard and fast for the music. The rest of the summer had been filled with clumsy practice sessions, exhausting repetitions of the same old songs, frustrating attempts at something new, and _joy_. By the time August rolled around he was loathed to return to Chicago and his split parent home, but his aunt sent him away with all her old song books and the promise that if he learned to play proficiently she would give him the honkey tonk.

She had kept that promise.

Kilroy still had that crotchety old piano. It sat, displayed with pride, in his living room and he still played it when he felt like reminiscing about his Colorado summers.

And even the slick gloss and refined nobility of the Bechstein couldn't beat the love he had for that rickety old trip down memory lane.

_But it sure as hell gives that old honkey tonk a run for its money_, Kilroy mused with a wide grin as he toyed with the temptation to play.

"Uh, Mr. Kilroy," someone called nervously.

Kilroy's attention was jerked suddenly back to his surroundings. He had slipped completely under the tides of his daydreaming and hadn't noticed the kid approach him.

Well, kid wasn't exactly right. The boy was well into his teens, but his shorter than average height and baby face framed with bronze blond hair gave him a much younger appearance.

"It's just Kilroy, Kid," Kilroy said.

"Uh…right…" the kid looked like the cat had gotten his tongue and swallowed it whole. Kilroy realized how rude his 'greeting' had sounded and decided to try again.

"Sorry," Kilroy apologized, "What can I do for you?"

The kid stood up a little straighter and puffed out his chest.

"I'm here to help with the show," he announced.

"Aren't you a bit young?" Kilroy asked. The kid was not a member of his crew – all of which were legally consenting adults that had volunteered freely to take part in his illegal escapade. In fact, he had never seen the boy before. How he had gotten backstage was a mystery considering the sheer number of people he would have had to have slipped past.

The kid looked a bit insulted, "I'm nineteen!"

Kilroy studied the kid's face. That was a lot older than he would have placed the boy's age, but he wasn't going to argue about it.

"Alright," Kilroy replied with an accepting shrug, "what can you do?"

The boy's face lit up like a flashlight, "I play guitar."

Kilroy bit the inside on his bottom lip. He hated popping people's bubbles- unless they had thoroughly earned it. "Look, Kid-"

"I can play back up!" He offered quickly before Kilroy could finish. "I know all your songs and I can play them all the way through."

Kilroy heaved a great mental sigh. This was not the first time a fan had approached him with such a request. Ordinarily he would let them down as gently as possible and encourage them to continue to pursue their interest in music, or offer to hear them play after the show and give them some professional feedback. This time, however, he actually needed all the help he could get to make this show work. He had received a call that very morning from his old friend James- his first choice in lead guitar- saying that something had come up and he couldn't make it.

That meant that either Kilroy would have to take on the role or find someone else who could and with the show being tomorrow night, finding a decent replacement would be a difficult task to say the least.

_What the hell? Give the kid a chance. He might be good._

Kilroy agreed with the little voice. After all, the worst that could happen would be that kid wouldn't be able to play a note to save his life and Kilroy would have to turn him down.

"I'll tell you what," Kilroy told the boy, "You play a few things for me and I'll see if you've got what it takes."

The kid's smile reached from ear to ear, "I'll go get my guitar!"

Kilroy sat in the front row, waiting for the kid to get his gear set up. He was well acquainted with guitar brands and he could instantly tell that the red edged instrument slung across the boy's chest was not a beginner's toy.

"You ready?" Kilroy called.

The kid nodded, "Yeah. What do you want me to play?"

"Start with _High Time_ and we'll go from there." Kilroy told him. _High Time_ was not the most difficult of his songs to play, but it was the headliner for tomorrow's show. It needed to be as close to perfect as he could get it under the circumstances.

The kid nodded again and took a few seconds to get himself ready to play.

It started out a bit reserved, he was understandably nervous, but as the song progressed Kilroy found himself pleasantly surprised by the kid's skill. He was good and as he grew more comfortable his playing became more confident and tight. By the time the kid hit the guitar solo, he was _rockin'_ it. He was hopping around the stage as if he were already in the midst of a screaming audience and his fingers flew over the strings with a flamboyant showmanship that could have rivaled Kilroy's own flare for the theatric.

"Hot damn!" Kilroy whooped, jumping to his feet.

When the song ended the kid looked like he had just come off some incredible high, his blond hair sticking to his damp face and panting for breath as if he had run a marathon.

"What's your name, Kid?" Kilroy shouted front the seats in ecstatic glee.

"Jonathon. Jonathon Chance." He panted.

"Welcome aboard, Chance!" Kilroy gave him a sailor's salute, his own broad grin matching the kid's.

Kilroy felt his stomach twist with a familiar anxiousness. The theater was full, the stage was set, and the band was all there.

He could hear the steadily growing excitement as the Paradise's gilded doors were shut and the lights were adjusted for the last time.

All that was left was to wait for his queue. Until then, he tried to contain his surging adrenaline rush. The old and wonderful high was back, the thrill of being the center of attention spreading though him like an injection. God, it felt good.

_This kind of euphoria should be illegal._ Kilroy joked to himself as he examined his reflection in the dressing room mirror.

_It is, stupid. You're playing with the futures of dozens of people here! Righteous will see you walk death row yet._ It was that nagging voice again coming to ruin his fun.

Kilroy stomped out the little voice as he would have the end of a cigarette and went back to adjusting his collar. He wasn't entirely happy with the lilac jumpsuit his costumer had insisted on, but he wasn't going to press the issue. He could perform in anything – or in nothing - he just wished that the jumpsuit had been a more masculine color.

While he made unnecessary adjustments the Paradise slinked through the dressing room and circled Kilroy like a swarping cat, her blue-gold eyes admiring the every inch of the view. The lilac, she noticed, brought out the blue hues in Kilroy's misty eyes.

"Get ready for the performance of a lifetime." Kilroy muttered to himself and to the omnipotent weight that was the essence of the theater's life force pressing gently on his heart. The silently charged atmosphere was disrupted by his phone's shrill ringtone, the name Suzanne blazed in white across the screen.

Kilroy snatched it up in an instant.

"Suzanne!" He answered with a wide smile. It was the first time she had spoken to him since he had left Chicago. Every time he had tried to call he had gotten that damned answering machine.

_"Rob,"_ the disembodied voice of his wife replied; she sounded like she had been crying, _"Rob, we need to talk."_

Kilroy felt his stomach- which had been bursting with butterflies a moment ago- turn to cement.

"Sure, Babe. What's on your mind?" He asked, all the enthusiasm draining from his face.

_"Robert, I've been thinking-" _

"Kilroy," barked Dean from the dressing room door. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the stage.

Kilroy glanced up and nodded in acknowledgement.

"Sorry, Babe, but I've got to." Kilroy said hurriedly. "I'll call you back after the show, alright? I love you." He hung up before she could respond.

Kilroy looked past the edge of the curtains, noticing immediately that something was terribly wrong onstage, though it took him a minute to realize who and what was missing.

"Dean," Kilroy hissed, "Where's Chance?"

Dean had his left hand pressed to his headset, a clipboard cradled in his other arm. He shrugged and shook his head.

"Goddammit." Kilroy cursed. "Where's the other guitar? The back up?"

Dean pointed to a point further backstage and Kilroy sprinted to grab the spare. Any concern he might have felt for Chance was quickly drowned under a wave anger. The kid had been roaming around a couple hours ago.

He slung the checkered strap over his shoulders and tried his best to walk onstage looking as if nothing had gone wrong. His band immediately knew that something was amiss, but they didn't show their confusion. After all, the number one rule of the stage was that the show must go on.

The deafening roar of the crowd hit them all like a wall of pure energy, carrying away any lingering frustrations and cares as efficiently as a carbon filter.

It was show time!

Kilroy raised his arms high in the air, prompting the crowd to do the same. The screams bounced off the back of the stage, creating an intense surround sound effect that vibrated under his sternum.

"I was supposed to have an opening speech," Kilroy yelled into his headset microphone. The noise from the audience died down instantly as they listened with rapt attention. "But we all know why we're here, right?"

They screamed and whooped in agreement. Kilroy smiled- his charming pearly whites flashing through his showman's grin- and laughed, "Then let's get this show on the road!"

The noise picked back up to the level of a running jet engine.

"On three, boys." Kilroy turned and said to his band. They got into ready their positions. He counted down and the show began with the shouted intro line to _Private Jones_.

They had barely gotten into the second minute when something slammed into the sealed double doors like a solid steel battering ram. The sound contrasted so disturbingly with the thrumming rock music that everyone, on stage and off, ceased their performing and cheering. The residual, electric hum of Kilroy's guitar was the last sound to fade away as the pounding on the doors grew more persistent.

Kilroy put his hand to his head set and pushed a small button on the side that would connect him with Dean.

"Uh, Dean… do we have a problem?"

Dean responded but his there was an impressive level to interference, _"Yeah…. There….Triple M's…Out. . . . Fuck"_

Kilroy's racing heart skipped a beat, tripped, and tumbled through his chest before landing somewhere below his stomach.

The double doors splintered and cracked, then flew open to reveal a small army of uniformed members of Righteous' Majority for Musical Morality.

Kilroy looked back towards his band and they understood instantly that they were all in deep shit. They had been caught in the act.


	6. Chapter 5: Private Jones

The men and women in Righteous' beige Triple M uniforms (which were purposefully designed to resembled janitorial uniforms to reinforce the "to purify America's media and youth" creed) stood in the splintered doorway like a small army of bizarrely domestic soldiers. Many of them were nothing more than misguided parents, yet that did not make them any less dangerous. In fact, it made them even more so. They were acting on the behalf of their children – whether their kids desired their interference or not. They truly believed they were creating a better future by stomping out Kilroy's kind; that they would somehow prevent the perversion and ugliness of the world from seeping into their children's innocent hearts if they could erase the famous faces of rock, pop, hip hop, rap, and punk.

Never mind those shadow-masked predators that stalked the grimy alleys ways between the keys of message boards or the smoke bellowing, booze fueled monsters living within their own homes or the treacherous tar pits of peer pressure and familial corruption. No, according to their spoon fed beliefs 'degenerate music' was where the true threat was coiled.

And it was under the influence these selective blinders – conveniently strapped onto them by Righteous' sly hands and glued securely in place by his persuasive lips – that the beige hive mind advanced towards the stage.

The crowd of costumed rock'n'rollers gave the Triple M's a wide berth. Not out of respect, but for fear of catching their clone-like discipline as if it were a plague. A few of the smarter viewers slipped discreetly from the masses and headed straight for the side doors, only to find that the exits – which had been left unlocked and clear to allow their escape should this exact situation occur – were now suddenly blocked from the outside. The panicked murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd so that by the time the Triple M's had come to a stiff halt at the base of the stage the rock'n'rollers were creating the illusion of pre-storm waves, complete with steadily building surround sound.

Kilroy stood straighter, his spine turning into a steel rod. He wasn't afraid of the Triple M's or Righteous, though he knew that he should be. These people were not playing games and there was no way in hell that he was getting out of this without a prison sentence.

_Might as well make it look good, Robbie. Go out like a load of fucking napalm!_ His little enabling voice whispered with enthusiasm.

_Just don't catch your loyal fans in the blast. This isn't People's Temple,_ cautioned a second, quieter voice.

Kilroy felt his delicate ego cringe at the metaphor, but the voice of reason was absolutely right. He could go out with a bang, but there were over a hundred people here that didn't deserve to be thrown into a barred eight by six for his antics, including his woefully unfortunate, but wholly invested band.

_Are you even gonna think about Suzanne, you self-centered little egotist?_ Snapped the nagging voice as it pushed past the other two. Kilroy shook his head, dislodging all three voices from their perch at the forefront of his mind. His brain was becoming painfully overcrowded.

He returned his full attention to the beige mass before him. One of the Triple M's stepped apart from his fellows, taking on the role as mouthpiece.

"Robert Kilroy," he addressed, his voice stern and unwavering, "You and your associates have violated code 672 which forbids the playing and purveying of rock, pop, hip hop, punk, and rap music. As a high ranking member of the Majority for Musical Morality I hereby place you and everyone here under arrest."

There was a pause. The Triple M's waited for Kilroy's surrender, the rock'n'rollers looked to him for guidance – most would follow his lead.

Kilroy looked over his right shoulder. Toby was immediately in his line of sight. The wild haired drummer was still holding his pale drumsticks over his drumheads. Kilroy looked to his left. His bass player and keyboardist were also hovering over their instruments, their fingers hadn't moved from the last note they had played.

The rock'n'rollers outnumbered the Triple M's three-to-one. The beige drones couldn't take them all down.

Kilroy smiled defiantly as he settled on his response. He deliberately lifted up the neck of his guitar and slashed his right hand across the strings. The thrum tore through the theater space in like a rebel yell. The murmuring tide of rock'n'rollers cheered. The Triple M's looked appalled. The man that had verbally placed Kilroy under arrest looked particularly disgusted.

Kilroy played another note in succession to the first and nodded to Toby, who grinned and hammered the heads of his drumsticks down on his drum set. The rest of the band followed suit and _Private Jones _was brought back to life.

The cheers of the rock'n'rollers increased to supportive screams and jeers. The mass of beige was jostled and bumped as the rebellious tides rose around them, eager to resume their celebration of music.

The mouthpiece for the Triple M's broke free of the thickening crowd and hoisted himself onstage, fighting off the multitude of hands that clawed at him and tried to pull him under the waves.

"Robert Kilroy," he shouted over the deafening roars and amps, "You are under arrest! Cease and desist this illegal activity in the name of the law!"

In response Kilroy made an even more flamboyant show of strumming the guitar and sang his lyrics even louder.

The screaming and cheering hit an ear shattering crescendo as the crowd rolled over the invading Triple M's, threatening to trample them underfoot.

A fight broke out, though no one would be able to recall who had thrown the first punch. The beige mass separated into individual blobs and those bland single cells were trying fight against the colorful sea of rebels.

The enthusiastic cheers twisted into pained yelps and angry shouts – from both sides.

Both Kilroy and the Triple M mouthpiece watched as the struggle unfolded, neither one sure how to reclaim control.

The mouthpiece was the first to act, his face screwed up in anxious fear.

_"Stop that filth,"_ He screamed at Kilroy, almost desperately.

Kilroy faltered, his words stumbling over themselves as the fight spilled onto the stage.

The Triple M mouthpiece lunged for him, his hands outstretched to physically force the music to stop as if in doing so he could calm the raging storm. Kilroy stepped back to avoid the grasping fingers, which wrapped tightly around the guitar instead. The mouthpiece tried to rip the guitar from him, but the checkered strap only caught Kilroy between his shoulder blades and dragged him forward with it.

The overwhelming tidal wave of frantic people didn't help Kilroy's now compromised balance. It had become impossible to tell the crowd apart. The beige blended with the bright costumes and the shouts had become a single, mocking imitation of a war song.

People rammed into him in their mad dash both to escape and to fight. In order to avoid falling under the tide and being trampled to death by the indiscriminate stampede he jerked backwards, using his own weight to counterbalance himself, taking the guitar with him. The Triple M was pulled off his feet and onto his knees by the sudden motion, his arms folded around himself in a desperate attempt to shield his body from the tangle of legs.

Kilroy had overcompensated and he stumbled backwards, got caught by the crowd, spun around like a human top, and finally thrown to the stage floor. He managed to catch himself just enough to prevent his nose from colliding with the hardwood, but the guitar was crushed underneath him – the strong edges jamming into his ribs before giving under his weight and the momentum of his fall. Its dying wail screamed through the amps that it was still wirelessly attached to.

And as the guitar released its agonized cry, things got inexplicably worse.

Gunshots were fired.

The already frenzied crowd panicked and bolted for cover.

Kilroy tried to scramble to his feet, but before he could even get to his hands and knees one of his fans tripped over him, their lower leg slamming into the side of Kilroy's head as if he were a soccer ball. Both of them landed in a heap. The guy that had tripped got back up instantly, hopping slightly from the pain of the impact. Kilroy blacked out for several seconds before regaining enough dazed consciousness to realize that he was lying on his back on the floor as people leapt over him.

His skull felt like it had imploded. He could already feel the lump rising and the side of his face swell. The outer corner of his right eye stubbornly refused to open all the way. Not that it mattered while his vision swam around in a swirl of elongating lights and stop motion.

He rolled onto his stomach, trying not to vomit from the sudden, gut twisting nausea. He tried again to get to his feet, but the stage wouldn't stop rocking from side to side.

By the time he had managed to shakily stand most of the panicked crowd had vanished, but another group of people were rushing onto the stage. It was another tide of hive minded Triple M's, but the beige was interspersed with blue and the blues were carrying guns of their own.

Startled and still not quite able utilize all his faculties, Kilroy twisted around and bolted drunkenly for the backstage exit.

Someone shouted behind him, but the words slurred together as his swelling brain tried weakly to process all the information it was being flooded with.

He didn't get very far before he was tackled from behind by a steamroller. Or at least it had felt like a steamroller.

He hit the hardwood stage with a terrible, solid smack – which was the sound of the right side of his head colliding with the floor. The tackler had wrapped his arms around Kilroy's diaphragm, pinning his arms to his sides.

Pain exploded again from behind Kilroy's right eye in a blinding explosion of red and black. He cried out in agony as the fireworks blasted through his skull. His stomach hitched again and this time he couldn't prevent the cup or so of bile from rising up his throat and spilling out from between his lips or the tears that streamed down his swelling face.

The voices were still shouting, barking orders and such, but Kilroy was rapidly fading out.

Two pairs of rough hands jerked him mercilessly to his feet, pulled the checkered guitar strap over his head, and twisted his arms sharply behind his back so that his wrists could be cuffed. He had to lean heavily on the owners of those hands for support, his head lolling limply on his neck. As he rolled out of consciousness his left eye (the other was now swollen shut) the glimmer of a moist red stain spreading across the front of the stage. The intense lights made the pool reflect like polished garnet.

A part of him – a part that wasn't concussed into dazed stupidity – knew that it was blood; a large, dark puddle of human blood spreading outward from a facedown beige uniform.


	7. Chapter 6: Sailing Away

Kilroy dreamt he was sailing. And it was the perfect day for it too. The sun parceled out its generous warmth like a summertime Santa Claus sitting enthroned in a sky of cloudless azure blue. The wind tugged playfully at his walnut curls, trying to run off with his costume sailor's hat and force him to chase after it or lose it to the childishly greedy waves.

The blue of the sky was reflected on those waves and then brought to life in a swirl of navy, indigo, white, and paleo green. Glittering sundrops frolicked gaily on the backs of the rolling eddies, giggling madly as the waves threw them into the air and caught them again.

Kilroy kept his sails low. He wanted to pass through the sparkling playground as unobtrusively as possible. His little sailboat, _The Rubicon, _lovingly nicknamed _Ruby_, eased on by, the soft ripples caused by her smooth cadences seeming to excite the golden specks of sunlight even more. They squealed and laughed as they were pushed aside and seemed to wave Kilroy good-bye when he left them behind.

Kilroy couldn't help but to wave back with a showy undulation of his long fingers, the smile on his face stretching past his ears. But, life could not be lived in the past so he faced forward and continued his casual cruise towards… well, nowhere.

He had no real memory of setting an actual course. He was just moving towards the edge of the universe where the skyline and the waves held hands so that they might never be parted.

Yet, the horizon did part.

It separated in a great seam right before his eyes and as the gaping tear widened the sun vanished, switched off like a desk lamp. There were no stars or moon to take its place either. Everything had been swallowed by the hungry mouth ahead of him.

He became vaguely aware that he was no longer on his little sailboat and that the water had solidified into the black void he was now standing in.

He became suddenly, intimately aware that he was in pain. A hurt that took on the form of an agonizing throb just behind his right eye that radiated across the right half of his skull.

His hand flew to the hurting side of his head, trying to sooth the internal pressure by adding more in a typical "if I can cover it, it'll go away" reaction.

The seam in the dark blinked and widened. Through it he could see a multitude of colors and light.

The pain intensified in an instant. His head felt unnaturally heavy, as if he might collapse under the swollen, sloshing weight of it. The waves were inside his head, he realized. The entirety of the sea was packed into the right side of his skull and any sudden movement caused a tidal wave to crash against the ringing walls. He held still, trying to keep the pain at a bearable level.

Another pulsating nova of pain flared into existence for no apparent reason at all, the beats rolling through his head in time with his heart.

The seam opened in full and released a devastating howl that only made the pain worse.

Kilroy was howling…whimpering and moaning as the morphine wore off.

He was awake now.

Fully, irrevocably, and unwillingly awake.

He was on his back, his head wrapped in several layers of white gauze and his wrists cuffed to the rails of a stiff hospital bed.

The seam in his dream had been his left eye forcing itself open as his body recognized the receding tide of medicated unawareness. His right eye was taped under a puffy square of cotton padding, which seemed to create a wall for the pain to bounce off of and ricochet back towards the oncoming waves, doubling the effect.

It took what seemed like ages for his mating cries of pain to attract a nurse. Kilroy wouldn't be able to remember her face or name - his brain screamed for the drugs and that drive blocked out anything else.

He found it distantly odd that he hadn't been given a nifty little button so that he could self-medicate. They did that sort of thing for patients on heavy anesthetics right?

But….

Why?

Why was he on such strong painkillers to start with?

He couldn't remember.

He knew he was hurt. In fact, he had been hurt pretty bad. He remembered being told so. A nurse – it might have been the same one that was currently releasing a healthy dose of clear morphine into his IV drip – explained that he had been hit in the head pretty hard. His right orbital bone had actually broken in two places and been surgically repaired with titanium plating. The nurse said that he was lucky to be alive (although she hadn't seemed too overjoyed by the fact). The blow had been perilously close to his temple and mere two centimeters more to the right would have killed him instantly, she had told him without emotion.

What that blow might have been, however, remained a mystery. It didn't seem as important to know that detail when there were more pressing concerns; like the fact that he was bound to his hospital bed.

When he had asked about the belted and velcroed cuffs, the nurse hadn't answered. She just let him slip silently back into unconsciousness as the painkiller numbed him from the inside out.

Much like this nurse was doing now.

The effect wasn't immediate, but knowing that relief was soon to come made him feel inexplicably better. And now that his screaming need for drugs had been satisfied, he could think a little clearer.

"Nurse," he mumbled as his eyes (_eye, singular, just one_) grew heavy. He couldn't finish his thought. The morphine had surged into his weeping brain, blanketing the pain in a thick layer of sickly sweet senselessness.

The nurse had reminded him of someone… They had the same blond hair…

_Suzanne…_

He wanted to know about Suzanne. If she knew he was hurt. If she had been by to see him while he had been asleep.

But he couldn't get the words out.

The blackness was back and the great seam, which he now dully recognized as the backside of his left eyelid, was shrinking. The water was returned with a sighing rush, the sapphire tongues licking _Ruby's _painted sides. The sun turned back on, warming the right side his numbed face with an artificial heat and the wind picked up, inflating the sails like a white lung and nudged his little sailboat on its way.

He watched the horizon close, knowing that the truth that lay beyond was immeasurably important. Knowing that he had fucked up - _big time_ - and that his being in the hospital was directly related to whatever he had done.

_Suzanne is going to kill me…_

He thought solemnly as he sailed away.


	8. Chapter 7: Rain I

Sometime later Suzanne did, in fact, come to the hospital, but she had a fight her way through an overgrown forest of news reporters and paparazzi first.

For three days these heartless media machines circled St. Lucy's like starving carrion eaters. Although, Suzanne often thought of them more as tapeworms than vultures. Vultures preferred their meat dead and rotten – they actually provided a service by picking the bones clean. No harm in that.

Tapeworms, however, crept into the bowls of the living and leeched off the host until it died of malnutrition. All the while the fat little worms gave birth to new parasites, and those gave birth to even more, and so the cycle continued until the living, bloated host was bursting at the seams with the damned things.

Unlike tapeworms, however, they didn't die with the host. They moved on to the next one, and then the next one, and the next one.

Now their beady eyes were trained on her husband and those that got pushed aside by more aggressive worms turned their gaping maws to her.

Dozens of microphones were shoved in her face while camera lenses loomed over her like glassy eyed Cyclopses.

_"Mrs. Kilroy, what do you have to say about your husband's arrest?"_

_"Is there any news on his condition?"_

_"Do you believe the murder charges against Mr. Kilroy?"_

_"Where were you the night of Kilroy's concert?"_

_"Did you support his decision to break the law?"_

_"Has your husband's arrest and the charges against him put a strain on your marriage?"_

Suzanne pushed past them with her head down and her hand shielding the left side of her face from the cameras. Not that her hand did any good. She was already wearing a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses and a shawl. If that hadn't been enough to disguise her, then her hand was certainly not going to make her disappear.

She was fortunate that the media hounds weren't permitted beyond the hospital's front doors. Once she crossed that magical threshold, she could relax. Well, sort of. She was no longer in danger of becoming media fodder, but wondering through the hospital halls was its own battle.

Her husband was now considered a potentially dangerous criminal suspect. She wasn't permitted to see him without two police escorts that would stand guard outside his door. She wasn't even allowed in his room before she was searched.

Never mind the fact that her husband was never awake for her visits or that he was in no condition to attempt an escape from the hospital even with her help.

One of the doctors had told her that her husband had suffered a severe concussion and a broken orbital that most assuredly caused some damaged to his right eye, although they wouldn't be sure the true extent until they could do remove the bandages.

But medical reassurances meant nothing to the police – most of whom were Righteous supporters. Her husband had been walking a fine line for years and now he had fallen off that tightrope and into the back of their squad car. His illegal concert had already earned him ten years; if they somehow pinned the death of Colonel Stephen Jones (the Triple M that had been killed that night) he was going away for life or worse...

Suzanne didn't like to think about it. Not because it made her sad, though it did make her cry. The thought brought on a wave of fat, furious tears that left smoking trails down her cheeks and burned through any surface that they fell upon with a hot sizzle and a pop.

But underneath the slab of rage was the deep, throbbing ache of heartbreak. Both emotions were hidden under a poker face that she had mastered after a decade of near constant use. With use, however, comes wear and the string to her faithful mask was fraying something fierce.

For now, though, it held.

Today she was able to make it through the accusing stares and the police escort to her husband's room on the fourth floor and the ritualistic search of her belongings and person.

When she finally got on the other side of the door, she had to take a moment for herself to readjust her poker face. Her feelings were so close to the surface these days…

She pulled off her sunglasses and tucked them carefully into her purse then removed her shawl so that her blond hair spilled freely – if frizzily – down her shoulders. Frustrated tears threatened to peak over the lip of her lower eyelid and they were quickly wiped away by an unamused thumb.

Suzanne took a deep breath, not quite ready to play her part as comforting, dutiful wife. She was more prepared to play the part of a vengeful Lady Macbeth.

It would do no good, however, to give her beloved a good thwacking across the side of his head. He had already done that for himself.

The right side of his face was heavily bandaged and his right eye was taped shut under a square cotton pad, but the wrappings did little to hide the hideous swelling and bruising. He looked like something out of a supernatural horror film… bright red and deformed with odd overlapping rolls of swollen flesh disguising the man beneath. Two-Face himself couldn't have looked more disturbing.

Suzanne did notice that the swelling had gone down since her visit yesterday, but not enough to make him any more pleasant to look upon.

He still resembled and overripe tomato.

Suzanne thought it must be wrong to feel so revolted. She knew she should be overwhelmed with concern and love – doctors had mentioned to her more than once that he had narrowly escaped an instantaneous death – but it been nearly six years since she had felt anything more powerful than obligation towards him.

If her heart had long since turned to a weeping stone, it had been by his fault alone.

Of course, he didn't know this. He so rarely looked beyond the surface, as wrapped up as he was in his own success. He didn't even suspect that she had a manila folder in her desk drawer at home that contained a thick stack of paperwork that lacked only his signature.

That that manila folder had been sitting in that desk drawer for four months, waiting only for Suzanne to find the right time to announce it.

But she had missed her chance to find a "right time", if such a thing even existed. Now she had to decide if she wanted to break the news before or after his trial.

She just chalked it up to yet another difficult situation that he had put her in. Another log on a fire that had been raging a mile high for years.

At least she had her novel.

An hour or two playing her part here, then she could go back home and lose herself in her writing. She played the click-clacking QWERTY keys in the way that her husband played his pianos – that is to say she played like an old pro. Instead of performing for stadiums full of rabid fans, however, she played for herself because most days it was all she had left to look forward to. In that little slice of paradise, there was always a happy ending. The lovers had their spats and obstacles, but their love would conquer and they would always have each other.

Too bad real life was nothing like a harlequin paperback.

Real life was a bitch.

Real life…

Well, it was real. And reality wasn't always sunshine and butterflies. Sometimes it rained. Sometimes it rained for years before the outbreak of a deadly storm.

Suzanne pulled a chair to the side of her husband's bed and sat down, beginning to absently stroke through his hair while her mind wondered back to her computer where chapter twenty-four of her newest novel waited to be written.

She didn't notice when her husband began to stir nearly an hour later – a motion that was little more than a twitching at the corner of his left eye to begin with. She was completely lost in her daydreams. Her main character, a young woman who was just starting to understand the truth behind her amazing psychic abilities and how to fully process the love she felt towards a man with similar abilities, had finally discovered a vital clue to a mystery that had been hanging over both their heads like a sinister piñata. Suzanne was imagining a truly terrifying scene where her two lovers were finally uncovering the secrets of the past when her husband's stirring became a waking grunt and moan.

"Sue?" He muttered sleepily, his left eye going in and out of focus as it fell on her.

Suzanne felt a surge of irritation followed by a thin blanket of relief, the closest thing to happiness where her husband was concerned that she had felt in a long while. He had pulled her away from her paradise, but it was the first time that he had been awake during her visit. She was pleased to see proof that he wasn't in a drug induced coma.

"Hi, Sweetie," she whispered back, her hand – the one that had been tugging softly at his curls – moving to cup his uninjured cheek and rub it gently with her thumb, "How are feeling?"

He cleared his throat and tried to shift back into a more upright position, but his cuffed wrists kept him down.

"Rough." He croaked. "But I guess I'm doing better."

"You look better." Suzanne agreed.

"I wouldn't know." He said, his voice losing its drowsy texture. "I haven't really gotten a good look at my reflection lately."

"It's probably for the best." Suzanne said, her hand dropping from his face to sit in her lap.

"It's that bad?" He asked.

Suzanne nodded, "But the doctor's said that once the swelling goes down you'll be good as new."

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. The doctors had told her that his face wouldn't always be a twisted mess as a result of his injuries, but he would have a scar or two. The degree to which these scars would appear couldn't be assessed until the swelling was gone and the bruising had faded.

Her husband, however, didn't seem to catch the indiscrepancy. He just nodded, but only slightly. Sudden movement aggravated his headaches and the nurses were weaning him off the morphine in favor of lighter painkillers.

Acetaminophen couldn't hold a damn candle to the good stuff. Couldn't even puff a smoke.

But he couldn't very well go into a holding cell and await trial if he was hooked to an IV drip.

"What's on the news?" He asked, meaning what the news was saying about him now that a murder charge was up in the air.

Suzanne paused. He had been awake less than five minutes and he was already steering the conversation towards a topic that she had no interest in discussing. But she answered his question, "Last I heard, the news said that they are investigating leads that could link you to the murder."

"What links? I never touched the guy!" Her husband asked sharply.

"I don't know, Rob." Suzanne sighed and put her hand over her temple. "I don't watch the news much anymore."

"What? Suzanne, I'm being accused of murder here! The least you could do is keep up with the bullshit Righteous is spreading about me." He snapped. His head was starting to throb again. He knew that it was a combination of pain and inadequate painkillers that was making him irritable, but he had expected better of her. After all, she was his wife.

Suzanne, however, was just as ready to snap back with equal force, "Oh, because the first thing I want to hear in the morning is how my husband has managed to get a part as the leading man for the biggest fucking scandal of the year. You're already guaranteed ten years because you just _had_ to put on that stupid show! Don't you think that's enough for me to deal with before eight in the morning?"

"Enough for you? Babe, I'm the one getting locked up!" He reminded her with an exasperated laugh.

"And you brought it on yourself!" She threw back at him, the anger that was always boiling just under the surface starting to bubble over. "An illegal show, Rob? At the Paradise Theater of all places?! What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that the ban on my music is bullshit!" He barked, then instantly regretted it. The vibrations cracked the brittle wall provided by his meds that shielded him from the full power of the pain.

"Is that all you can think about? Your damned songs?" Suzanne said in exasperated disbelief. "Rob, you are being investigated for murder! Someone_ died_ at _your_ ILLEGAL concert!" She stressed the word 'illegal'. "Can't you see how serious this is?"

"It's a false charge!" Kilroy spat. "They're just looking for an excuse to turn me into a fucking example for their anti-rock campaign! All I'm guilty of is exercising my right to free expression!"

"Oh, because being thrown in jail for ten years is still worth your five minutes in the spotlight." Suzanne snapped. Kilroy winced, both from the increasing pain in his head and from the sharpness of her scathing comment.

"Do you ever think about anyone other than yourself? Do you ever think about how this affects me? This isn't the Robert Kilroy show! The world doesn't revolve around you!"

"I never said it did!"

Their voices were raised to shouts that could be heard through the closed door and although the nurses and the other visitors were shocked that the two had escalated with such unnatural speed, they had no idea how calm this argument was compared to most others that the couple shared in the privacy of their own home.

"If you weren't already hurt, I'd slap the shit out of you for being such an inconsiderate dumbass!" Suzanne barked from the side of Kilroy's hospital bed where she now stood.

"Now don't start that! I tried to call you-" Kilroy started angrily, but only to be cut off.

"Oh, no, don't you dare try to justify this, you, you,-" she stumbled for the word, lost it and let out a frustrated snarl, "I can't even find the word I'm so angry with you! I didn't know where the hell you were for over a week then I suddenly get a call from the police department saying that you had instigated a riot and that you were in surgery for head trauma! A riot, Rob! What the fuck? Did The Majority for Musical Morality need another reason to lock you up?"

"First off," Kilroy snapped, interrupting her stream. "It wasn't a riot until the fucking Triple M's showed up to started a fight. Second, I didn't instigate a damned thing, they started it!"

"This isn't fucking kindergarten! It doesn't matter _who_ started it, Rob, you were in the wrong! Do you even know what ILLEGAL means? It means something ISN'T ALLOWED!" She shouted at him, her voice making his ears ring and his head ache even worse. The thin wall blocking pain was only seconds away from collapse and then things would really go to shit.

"Stop shouting!" He demanded. "I can hear you just fine and in case you weren't aware of the fact, I'm currently spinning through headache hell!"

"You're in hell!? I'm in hell!" She snapped back, enraged that he would dare command her to do anything after everything he had put her through, "Being married to you has been hell!"

A horrified silence followed.

The words had slipped out in anger, but they could not be taken back.

Suzanne was appalled by her outburst, but didn't try to apologize because there was never a "right time".

Kilroy gaze up at her like a kicked dog, his lips parted in silent disbelief.

He swallowed.

"You don't mean that." He stated quietly. He didn't want to _ask_ if she meant it. That left room for her to say 'yes'.

Suzanne didn't reply.

"Suzanne," he choked through a rapidly swelling lump in his throat, "You didn't mean that… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. Say you didn't mean it…please."

Suzanne's dark eyes were turning red, but she held her ground.

"Rob," she said, her voice squeaking a little as she spoke, "I want a divorce."


End file.
